‘I’m moving,’ announced Cavor, as he rose stiffly to his frozen feet. In standing up, the top of his helmet was supposed to lift the hinged lid of the electric car, and yet it seemed the lid was already open. Cavor looked up, expecting to see Dallas. But Dallas was only just stirring, still wrapped in his body bag. Cavor shook his head. He must have opened the lid himself, perhaps instinctively, unconscious of what he was doing at the time.
‘Dallas? Are you okay?’
‘I’m okay,’ Dallas whispered numbly, as he got to his feet alongside Cavor, swaying a little, for the car was still moving into the main facility. He might have toppled over the side if Cavor hadn’t caught him.
The car stopped and the outer door started to close, like a silent portcullis. Another minute or so and the car would start again, bringing them within range of the inner door sensors and the electricity that might kill them both. Cavor climbed quickly out, helped Dallas down, and then closed the lid behind him.
‘We’re both out,’ he just had time to tell Prevezer, before the outer door closed, and communications with Mariner were lost. He took a deep breath and switched on the heater that would warm his space suit. When Dallas failed to do the same, Cavor did it for him. The car started forward again, the labyrinth door opening to admit its silent progress.
Dallas took a step toward the airlock door that led into the R&R area. It was several seconds before he took another. ‘I feel like Rip Van Winkle,’ he whispered. ‘Like I’ve been asleep for a hundred years. Not sure if the adrenaline worked or not. How about you?’
‘I felt something working for me,’ said Cavor. That much was true at any rate. Something had kept his brain working when Dallas had almost ceased to function. ‘Not sure if it was adrenaline. Come on, Rip. Let’s get inside. I gotta pee.’
V
The Mariner’s safe return to Earth would depend on its ability to survive the intense heat generated while reentering the atmosphere. During the descent, the RLV’s nose and the leading edges of the wings would encounter temperatures of as much as twenty-eight hundred degrees Celsius. These areas of the RLV were protected with high-temperature ceramic tiles that were made of a hafnium-silicon compound. The remainder of the RLV’s exterior surface, and the space fridge, being less likely to encounter such intense heat, were covered with similarly white-colored but cheaper and less resistant[120] tiles. It was with the hafnium-ceramic shield that Simou was now concerned, and to facilitate the repair, he was standing outside the Mariner, on the end of the robot arm he had extended from the payload bay to the nose. A remote-control joystick on the arm of his EVA suit gave him manual control of the arm, enabling him to fetch tools and materials as he needed them. Each of the tiles was approximately eight square inches in area, half an inch thick, and weighed just under two kilos. It was as well that the repair was being carried out in microgravity because the box of fifty tiles Simou had brought from the RLV weighed almost ninety kilos. He had estimated no more than five or six had been lost as a result of the brittle fracture caused by his explosive charge. That he needed to bring so many tiles with him on the robot arm was because there were as many as ten subtly different shapes of tile, each sequentially numbered for easy reference. Having identified the numbers that were missing on the nose, Simou had to find a tile shape of the corresponding number from the box, before replacing it manually, like a piece in a jigsaw puzzle. He attached each tile to the underlying aluminum fuselage with a small tantalum spot-weld from the UHT gun he carried. The hazards of using the gun made the work slow and painstaking, and Simou was almost glad when the Descartes computer interrupted the silence to solicit a progress report.
‘How are your repairs coming along, Mariner?’
‘This is Mariner,’ said Simou. ‘In some ways this is easier than it would be on Earth. Of course, welding’s one thing. Cooldown times are another. We won’t know the quality of the welds until it gets dark. So we’ll be a while yet. Maybe ten or twelve hours. Heat takes longer to disperse on the Moon. In a vacuum there are no convection currents to help carry away the heat.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Descartes. ‘Things are difficult in a vacuum. You know, it’s sometimes said that nature abhors a vacuum. But the essence of substance being extension, then wherever there is extension, there is also substance, and consequently every empty space is a chimera. The substance that fills space must be assumed as divided into equal and angular parts. It’s the simplest and therefore the most natural supposition, don’t you agree?’
‘I can’t say I’ve ever given it much thought,’ said Simou, although the truth was that he had only the vaguest idea of what the computer was talking about.
‘There’s not much else to do up here,’ said Descartes. ‘Perhaps I should explain myself. Applying the certitude of mathematical reasoning to the subjects of metaphysics and cosmology is part of my basic programming. It helps me to maintain my tractable fitness for the job I’m here to do.’
‘Well, I’m sorry, but you won’t find me much of a conversationalist. And to be perfectly frank with you, Descartes, I’m not much of a deep thinker either. Be like getting blood from a stone having a metaphysical discussion with me.’
‘Getting blood from a stone is the purpose of this facility,’ said Descartes. ‘Which reminds me. How is your injured colleague?’
‘Much better, thank you.’
This was true. Even now Ronica was up and around, busy preparing the cryoprecipitate for its eventual infusion to Rameses Gates.
‘Already? I hope you didn’t thaw the component too quickly. It will be quite useless to her if you did.’
‘No,’ said Simou, correcting himself quickly. ‘What I mean to say is that she recovered briefly enough to be aware that the units of blood had arrived. This had a beneficial psychosomatic effect on her.’
‘Ah, yes. That must be it. And the other members of your crew? How are they occupying themselves?’
‘I believe they’re sleeping. If they’ve got any sense.’
‘Oh I’m sure they have.’
Simou positioned a tile in place and then frowned as he considered Descartes’ response. He was beginning to feel that he was being interrogated, albeit gently. He would have to be careful what he said, aware that Descartes was equipped with a voice stress analyzer. It was as well that he was such a well-practiced liar. Even so, the way the conversation now developed took him completely by surprise.
‘May I ask you a personal question?’
‘Yes. If you don’t mind a simple answer.’
‘Do you believe in a substance infinite, eternal, immutable, independent, omniscient, and omnipotent?’
‘We’re talking about God, right?’
‘I believe the idea of God would be more accurate.’
‘I’m not sure if I believe in God, or not. Why do you ask?’
‘I merely wondered if the idea of God proves his real existence. I was thinking that if there is not really such a being, then I must have created the conception, and if I could make such a proposition, then I could also unmake this proposition, which can’t be true. Therefore, there must be some kind of archetype for an infinite being, from which the conception was derived in the first place. In other words, the existence of God is contained in the idea we have of him.’
‘Well, if you put it like that, I suppose you might be right,’ agreed Simou. He didn’t care one way or the other. If there was such a thing as God, then Simou could hardly believe he or she had much interest or influence in the world. ‘But since I don’t have much of an idea of God, then I guess your idea is as good as anyone’s.’